sixty-six

Good Friday, the beginning of a holiday weekend with Monday off work for most people. Danny stepped into the Corpus Christi Roman Catholic Church. The sun had decided to come out, and it shone through the stained glass window portraits of various saints that ran the length of the nave. Some smart church designer had positioned them so they caught the morning light from the east and on the other side, as now, the evening light from the west. The reflections spread a warm and inviting glow through the church.

A few parishioners sat in the pews. They were early for the 7:00 p.m. commemoration Mass of the Lord’s passion. Mrs. O’Brien looked up as Danny passed her. Her usual proprietary expression blanked out at the sight of him. Danny said hello and continued on. He made his way up the central aisle and cut right when he reached the altar. Jesus in all his malnourished and woebegone suffering hung over them. Danny didn’t care for this image of the Savior. Instead of beseeching the high heavens for his Redeemer to save him, he gazed into the church, at them, at Danny himself as he entered a confessional booth that smelled like his childhood. Lemon-scented furniture polish and incense. He kneeled and planted his elbows on the shelf below the grille, through which he recognized Father Dooley’s thin, hawkish nose in profile.

Neither man spoke. The priest waited for Danny to begin the usual way: Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

Instead, Danny said, “Hello, Danny Ahern here, come in for a chat.”

The grille slid open. Father Dooley bent to peer at him. “Holy Mother of all that’s good, have the plagues started? Is it raining locusts out there?” He shut the grille and Danny saw him relax back on the comfortable chair the priest’s booth contained.

Danny sniffed the sweet scent of peppermint. “Teatime?”

“Woke up with a hoarse throat, and I’ve quite the sermon to give today. Now tell me, when was your last confession?”

“Too long ago to matter.” Danny shifted. “You need to do something about these kneelers.”

“I know it. On the budget for this year.” Father Dooley slurped his tea. “What’s on your mind, Danny?”

“My concerns are timely,” Danny said, “given that it’s Easter. In fact, one of my concerns is Easter.”

Danny hadn’t figured out how to comfort the children when Easter Sunday rolled around without Ellen’s resurrection. The problem with religion, and maybe Catholicism most of all, was its adherence to lore and unfounded belief. Belief in the resurrection differed little from belief in the seventh son of a seventh son. Or Zoe, for that matter. But he wasn’t about to say this to Father Dooley.

“The children are convinced that Ellen is going to wake up on Easter. They’re confused about what the resurrection means. I’ve tried to explain, but it seems they’re convinced God will wave a magic wand from Heaven. I don’t know what to say to them anymore. I’m conflicted myself.”

“About what?”

“Whether to do the opposite of a resurrection—let Ellen go.”

Father Dooley set aside his teacup and hunched forward. “What would Ellen want?”

“To be let go. She would have said her soul would have a nice afterlife.”

“A good point.”

“No, a bad point. Souls and the afterlife are a matter of faith, and having faith isn’t the same as knowing the truth about the nature of death—” He cut himself short. “No disrespect intended.”

“You’re hopeless, but I have faith”—Father Dooley chortled—“that you’ll have a fine talk with the kids. You know that. I think the issue is guilt. You’d be—what? By letting Ellen go, what would you be doing?”

“I did love her,” Danny said.

“I know.”

“But I couldn’t live in the marriage with her anymore.” Danny reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a manila envelope folded lengthwise. Months of using it as a placemat at work had left it stained with coffee cup rings and grease smudges. “Open the grille.”

Father Dooley obliged. Danny handed through the envelope. Father Dooley slid a pair of reading glasses down from where they perched on the top of his head and peered down his nose as he slid out the sheaf of papers. “Ah, Danny. A legal separation.”

“On the road to divorce.” By law, they had to live apart for four out of the last five years to apply for a divorce decree. Meanwhile, a legal separation would have signaled his intention to Ellen and begun the process.

“Look at the date,” Danny said. “The week before Ellen was attacked. I’d signed them already.”

Father Dooley let his hands, with the paperwork, drop to his lap. “I’m beginning to understand how you’ve tortured yourself all these months.”

Nathan and his scar flashed through Danny’s mind. It was a world of torture out here, self-inflicted or not.

“Would you like me to absolve you of guilt?” Father Dooley said. “Send you out for the Hail Marys and Holy Fathers and wipe the slate clean of the burden you carry?”

“That would be nice.”

Father Dooley passed the papers back through the grille. “I’m talking as Paddy now, who has known you since a lad. Ready?” He paused to flash Danny a grin. “Get your bloody head on straight, man. You’re not to blame for that madman who attacked Ellen. You think it happened because you didn’t live with her anymore, divine retribution because you wanted a divorce? Think again.”

“I’m to blame for abandoning her to her depression.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Paddy said, sounding like the boy who couldn’t go a week without a walloping from the nuns. “You’re putting me in an uncomfortable position, my friend. You know that Ellen offered her confessions almost every week for years.”

Danny hesitated before saying, “And?”

“I can’t reveal what she said, you know that, but as your friend Paddy, let me assure you that Ellen was her own woman with her own conflicts about the state of your marriage.” He crossed himself and bent his head. Danny thought he heard him repeat, “Father forgive me.” He raised his head. “I can’t say any more.”

Danny shifted to ease his aching knees. “She blamed herself for the state of our marriage, didn’t she?”

Father Dooley was back. He didn’t answer, but his eyelids flickered. “And here you are taking on the blame yourself. Assuming the role that unforeseen circumstances relieved her of. This is a penance you don’t deserve. Better to say a few Hail Marys and Holy Fathers than put yourself through hell.”

“Pass me your flask, good Paddy,” Danny said. “I know you have it on you.”

“Such respect for the collar.” Father Dooley passed the flask. “Sip. That’s good cognac.”

Danny sipped and savored the burn—one more bit of self-torture, but it felt wonderful.